


Now More Than Ever

by fadeoutslow



Series: Have Your Way [3]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:25:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadeoutslow/pseuds/fadeoutslow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the Austin GP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now More Than Ever

It's not until Monday morning, when he's packing to leave after the race that Jean-Eric notices. That scarf is one of his favorites and it's not _anywhere_. He thinks back, trying to recall the last time he wore it and _oh_. Yeah. He must have left it behind, on Saturday night, in Michael's room. 

And for a moment he's lost as he remembers what else went on in Michael's room. He stares into space, images and sensations flooding his mind and it's almost overwhelming to even _think_ about. 

He shakes his head, realizes he's standing there with what feels like a ridiculously dopey smile on his face, and yeah. This is not good. He's kind of got it bad, and pining after Michael fucking Schumacher, who is, apart from just being Michael fucking Schumacher and thus totally unattainable, a person who Jean-Eric will, in all probability, never see again after two more races is the very definition of pointless. But then Jean-Eric's whole life lately seems to be an exercise in futility so, he thinks, what's one more thing?

And it's a pity about the scarf, because he _liked_ that scarf but, still, somehow the thought that he's left some piece of himself, some mark, however insignificant, in Michael's space is, well, _gratifying_. 

He knows that Michael probably didn't even notice it, and that if he did he likely wouldn't remember where it came from or whose it was. Jean-Eric considers maybe asking at the desk if someone from housekeeping found it, handed it in, but the fact that it wasn't in own his room would only lead to an awkward conversation and anyway, it would spoil the fantasy. He prefers to imagine that the scarf ended up being thrown in Michael's luggage, that it's still there, with him, being carried by him, wherever he is.

Jean-Eric glances at the clock, and if he doesn't hurry up, he's going to miss his flight.

-

Two weeks later, and he's in Austin. The atmosphere at the circuit is amazing, so much energy, but the track is difficult, way more difficult than anyone expected. The lack of grip is kind of remarkable, and it's the main topic of conversation among the drivers while they're all milling around, waiting for the parade to start. Jean-Eric's talking to Romain when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Michael wander in, which is unusual because Michael's almost always late for these things, and it's not until Jean-Eric turns that he notices it.

The scarf. He has to look twice, but yeah, that's _his_ scarf that Michael's wearing. 

_Fuck_.

It's just… _fuck_ , but Michael always manages to put him off balance somehow, surprise him. The guy is anything but predictable, and Jean-Eric can't decide if it's the hottest thing ever or just really, really unnerving.

And, of course, Michael sees him staring, gives him a small, self-satisfied smirk, obviously pleased he's had the desired effect, before looking away, greeting some of the other drivers.

"What?" Jean-Eric says to Romain, who's still talking.

It's only a minute or so later that Michael approaches him, but it feels like an eternity, and Jean-Eric could swear that he _feels_ Michael behind him before he hears him speak, the _heat_ of him approaching, like every nerve ending in his body is sensitized to Michael's presence.

"Hello," he says, and Jean-Eric turns to face him, doesn't say anything. "Do you like my scarf?" Michael asks him, all studied nonchalance, the archness in his voice so affected and smug that Jean-Eric just wants to grab him, kiss him, something, _anything_.

He takes a breath, steadies himself. "Yes," he says, meeting Michael's gaze, and they look at each other for a long, long moment. Too long, but then everyone else is surely too busy to notice.

"Good," Michael says. His mouth is slightly open and he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, and it's all Jean-Eric can do not to moan out loud, it's so fucking _dirty_. 

"We're ready guys," one of the organizers calls, and everyone starts to make their way over to the cars. Jean-Eric is still for a second, waiting for Michael to move first, but then someone pushes past him and the spell is broken, the instant gone.

Jean-Eric shakes hands with his driver, signs an autograph for him and poses for a picture, the usual, then climbs into the back of the car, his sunglasses on, sipping his drink. He's further up the line than Michael and he glances back, watching. There seems to be some kind of problem with the car Michael's supposed to riding in, and the sound of laughter floats through the air as he climbs into the next one, which is Kimi's. Michael's smiling, and even from this far away Jean-Eric can see his teeth, white and gleaming in the pale sunshine. 

He shivers, turning away as the car takes off, but every time he waves to the crowd, he checks behind him. Michael and Kimi's car is only visible on the straights, but Jean-Eric's sure Michael's looking in his direction. And maybe it's wishful thinking, but then, there's the _scarf_.

He can't believe Michael's actually wearing it, that he found it and kept it and went to the trouble of putting it on today, and maybe it's just some kind of tease, a game to Michael, but Jean-Eric so very desperately wants to believe that there's some kind of _meaning_ to it, something significant, that Michael's trying to _tell_ him something.

And now he's thinking about the scarf, about how soft it is, the way it's always felt against his skin, the way it must be feeling around Michael's neck right now and by the time they get through the parade lap and back to the waiting area, Jean-Eric's hard enough that it's got to be pretty obvious. He mutters a goodbye to the driver of his car and heads quickly around a corner, where he knows there's a single bathroom which is, fortunately, empty.

He's got the door locked, rubbing his cock desperately through his jeans with one hand while with the other he struggles to unbuckle his belt, when there's a knock. He freezes. "Sorry," he calls out, trying to keep his voice neutral. "Occupied."

"I know," someone says, and _shit_ , Jean-Eric thinks, because it's fucking _Michael_.

He opens the door, fumbling with the catch, and Michael slips inside. Jean-Eric barely manages to lock the door again, his hands are shaking so much, but he finally manages it, turns to face Michael.

"Did anyone see you come in?" he asks, and Michael just smiles at him.

"Do you care?"

And Jean-Eric smiles back, feeling breathless, reckless. "No," he says.

Michael takes a step towards him, reaching out, grabbing the waistband of Jean-Eric's jeans, pulling him closer. "You," he says, and there's something almost _savage_ about the way he looks, something wild. "You're addictive," he says.

"Is that good?" Jean-Eric asks, and Michael's hands are on his shoulders now, walking him backwards until he's up against the wall.

"It's dangerous," Michael answers.

"Yes," Jean-Eric agrees, swallowing nervously, and then Michael leans in, predatory, his teeth showing, his mouth on Jean-Eric's, kissing him open, raw and messy. They've never exactly taken their time before, but there's always been some kind of build-up, however token. This is straight in, cruder and more primal, Jean-Eric opening his legs, gripping Michael's ass and pulling him in, grinding up against him, hands scrabbling at the fastening of Michael's jeans.

Michael shifts back, just enough, and as Jean-Eric tries to follow, he's unceremoniously shoved downward, the hard floor jarring his knees as he lands awkwardly, but he barely even feels it, Michael's hard cock right in front of his face, ready for him.

Jean-Eric licks his lips, opens his mouth, but Michael's not waiting, pushing in with some force, his hands tight in Jean-Eric's hair. There's no finesse here, and it's exactly what Jean-Eric needs, Michael fucking into his throat, taking him, _using_ him. He tries to rub at his own cock, but Michael's being rough enough that he needs to concentrate, holding on with both hands, gripping Michael's hips hard, thinking briefly of the bruises he's leaving, of what they'll look like tomorrow. 

He gags a little as Michael comes, pulling hard at his hair, thrusting forward, making Jean-Eric's eyes water with it, but it only makes it better, the feeling of it engulfing him, pain and pleasure all at once, intoxicating.

Michael moves away a step, and Jean-Eric looks up at him, feverish with want, one hand inside his pants, trying to quiet the shameful-sounding whining noises he can hear himself making. "Come on," Michael says, helping him to his feet, something gentle in his touch, and now Michael's the one on his knees, unbuttoning Jean-Eric's jeans, taking out his cock, air cool on heated flesh.

"Please," Jean-Eric says, and Michael's mouth around him is something like a revelation, relief so sweet that he's coming before Michael's barely even started, and it's humiliating to have no staying power whatsoever, no control, to be so eager, but it seems that's what Michael does to him.

He collapses back against the wall, panting, and Michael stands up, reaching out, one hand firm on Jean-Eric's jaw, tilting his head back just enough, and then he's spitting Jean-Eric's own come into his mouth, other hand stroking his throat as Jean-Eric swallows it down. He grabs the back of Michael's head, dragging him in until they're touching, kissing, Jean-Eric chasing the taste of himself out of Michael's mouth till there's nothing left, not even a trace.

Michael finally pulls back and Jean-Eric doesn't move. He feels dizzy, undone, and Michael just looks at him, steady, serious. He takes hold of the corner of the scarf he's still wearing, and carefully, thoroughly, wipes off Jean-Eric's face, his cheeks, his lips, like he's a child. It's strangely tender, almost paternal, and Jean-Eric shuts off his mind, not wanting to think about what that means.

He watches as Michael turns away, straightening himself up, tucking in his shirt, fastening his jeans. Jean-Eric doesn't move, still leaning on the wall, legs spread, but after only a minute or so Michael already looks smooth, put-together, like nothing ever happened. 

Maybe it didn't. Jean-Eric feels like he wouldn't even know.

"Do you want this back?" Michael asks him, gesturing at the scarf.

"No," says Jean-Eric. "You keep it."

Michael doesn't smile, but there's obvious warmth in his eyes. "I'd like that," he says.

He nods, moves as if to leave, but then turns back. "Thank you, Jean-Eric," he says, and Jean-Eric realizes that it's the first time Michael's actually said his name.

"Everyone calls me Jev," he says.

Michael looks at him. "I'm not everyone."

"No," Jean-Eric says. "You're not."

"But thank you, _Jev_ ," Michael says.

The door closes behind him, and he's gone.


End file.
